


looking to shed your next skin

by webby8legs



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Barebacking, Come Marking, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsession, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webby8legs/pseuds/webby8legs
Summary: Victor hates to sleep alone. Yuri takes advantage.





	looking to shed your next skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the [kink meme](http://yurionicekink.dreamwidth.org/881.html?thread=237937#cmt237937).
> 
> It's not really covered in the fic, so: this takes place a couple of years after the canon time period, in an AU where Yuri and Victor never met Yuuri and everything is depressing forever. \o/

People who haven't met Victor assume a lot about him. They assume his life must be as polished and perfect as his routines, that his flawless public persona must be a reflection, or perhaps only a slight exaggeration, of who he is in private. They call him the ice prince, and assume that when a prince pays attention to you, that means something.

Yuri fell into the same trap, when he was younger. Kind of embarrassing to think of now. If Victor was the prince, he was the chosen heir, and he wanted to be, so badly. He remembers his last junior Grand Prix, Victor telling him to work on his step sequence; he shrugged it off with a roll of his eyes, and then practiced until even Yakov only had a few minor criticisms to make. He let Victor choreograph his senior debut, a stamp of ownership on the first page of his adult career, and when he took silver, Victor's arm around his shoulder on the podium had even taken the bitterness out of second place.

He should have known better than to look up to someone and expect them not to let him down. But it was Victor. Victor was different. Everyone knew that.

And even now, in some locked part of his mind, he wants to believe it means something that it's his room Victor comes crashing into, in the small hours after the gala.

"Fuck off," he says reflexively when he opens the door, more because of the brightness of the corridor lights than anything. It's too bright to see, but he knows Victor from the blur of silver hair and from the way he smells when he pushes past. Yuri tries not to think about that too hard, that he can identify Victor by scent. They've shared hotel rooms before, so he can recognise Victor when he's stumbling in drunk. That's all it is.

"Did you forget your room, old man? You're across the hall." But he's closing and locking the door even as he says it, and his heart is in his throat, pounding.

"I'll be quiet," Victor says. He puts his arm around Yuri's waist, maybe for support. "Let me stay, Yura, it'll be fun."

 _What kind of fun?_ Yuri wants to ask, thinking it'll sound cynical, older than his years, the age he feels. But in the end it doesn't come out. He says, in a slightly hoarse voice, "Yeah, okay."

He takes Victor's hand and pulls him towards the bed. Victor laughs and pulls back. "I can't sleep in my suit. Let me take it off."

This time Yuri can't speak at all; he just nods and climbs into bed to wait. He can't resist sneaking a few glances while Victor strips down to his briefs, but he doesn't quite dare to look as openly as he'd like to. He just lies there, rigid.

The light clicks off. Victor climbs in next to him.

"Roll over on your side," he says. "Don't be so stiff, I'm not going to hurt you."

He does as he's told, thinking, _God, yes, please,_ thinking, _No, this is too fast, can't we —_

Victor's arm slips around his waist and he tenses involuntarily, expecting — it doesn't matter what he's expecting. It doesn't happen. Victor only cuddles up behind him, burying his face in Yuri's hair. A moment later he seems to be asleep. Of course. He just came in here to sleep. Why else?

Yuri has never been more awake. Victor's hand is on his chest, Victor's body is pressed full-length against his back. And he can smell it now, beneath the sweat and champagne, the musk and cologne: something sour and seedy and familiar, like when Yuri jerks off in bed before his alarm and doesn't clean up right away.

 _Gross._ He tries to swallow, but his mouth and throat are dry.

If he thought about it, he could probably guess who Victor's been with, but he doesn't want to. Doesn't want to think at all. Especially doesn't want to think about what he's doing when he brings his hand up — slowly, so slowly it's like he's not moving at all — and lays it over Victor's on his chest.

For a minute it's just like that, their hands moving up and down with the rhythm of Yuri's breath. He's breathing like after a training session, almost panting, unbearably hot.

Still not thinking about it, he starts to push Victor's limp hand downwards. It skims over his nipple, down his ribs one by one, over his stomach, past his navel. There he stops. He can't bring himself to go any further. If Victor woke up now...

But he can picture it. Pressing Victor's hand hard between his legs, rocking up against it, _god_ , it's so clear, so real, so terribly possible. His cock twitches — he feels it move against the heel of his hand, and Victor's. What kind of person would do something like that? What kind of person would get off on the thought of it?

He gets up. He doesn't make any effort to be subtle, but Victor doesn't stir at all; his arm falls from around Yuri's waist, dead weight.

It doesn't mean anything. It's not — whatever it looks like. Yuri's just taking care of a problem that won't go away by itself.

He's fumbling with his pants before the bathroom door is all the way closed. He barely has time to get a hand around his dick before he's coming in desperate, eager spurts, nearly biting through his lip in an effort to keep silent. When it's over he slides down the wall, his legs shaking, and stares without seeing across the room, waiting for his breathing to go back to normal.

When he gets back into bed, Victor still doesn't move. Yuri doesn't look at him, certainly doesn't touch him. He lies as far away as he can, practically hanging off the edge, and closes his eyes resolutely.

It doesn't mean anything.

* * *

In the morning, Mila says, "Did Victor come to your room last night?"

Yuri jumps as if scalded. How the fuck did she know? He can't say anything, but she sees it on his face.

"Oh, relax, I know nothing happened. Victor wouldn't do anything like that. He doesn't like being alone, that's all. I figured it would be you now Georgi's retired."

Yuri flashes back to the wild leap of hope he felt when Victor came in. The way his heart sped up at Victor's arm around his waist. His face burns.

"I know," he says, turning away from her. "It's not a big deal."

* * *

The articles all say it's a minor injury. They say the timing is lucky — right at the end of the season, so he has the summer break to rest up and recover. They're all adamant it won't affect Victor's career, but all of them, as if in passing, mention that he's almost thirty. The unspoken question is, how long can he keep this up? Nobody says 'retirement', but everyone's thinking it.

Victor laughs it off in interviews. "I haven't had a holiday in ten years," he says. "Maybe I'll go sightseeing."

Maybe he does. Yuri doesn't know. But not long after they get back to St. Petersburg, at eleven o'clock at night, Victor's at the door of his apartment, hell beast in tow, wanting to come in.

"Fuck _off_ ," Yuri says, less reflexively this time. "Get that dog — "

Potya sees Makkachin, hisses once and retreats to a high shelf. Yuri's expecting some kind of cartoon cat-and-dog chase, furniture flying, but Makkachin is better behaved than that. Her ears perk up when she sees Potya jump, but then she relaxes again, tail swinging lazily from side to side, and pushes her nose against Yuri's wrist. He doesn't intend to pet her, it's just that her head kind of ends up under his hand.

"We came to see how you're doing," Victor says, beaming. "I brought beer, so don't tell Yakov. I've never had a sleepover, have you?"

Yuri groans. "You're _not_ staying the night."

But Victor did come all this way, and Makkachin's old and probably shouldn't have to walk back home again, so reluctantly he lets them in. He fills up a bowl of water for the dog and is tempted to leave it at that, but he can't help thinking what his grandpa would say about his lack of hospitality. So he says, "There's food in the fridge, do what you want," and throws himself back down on the couch.

Victor sits next to him. He's already opened one beer for himself, and one for Yuri, which Yuri doesn't touch.

"What are you watching?"

"Old routines. Trying to think of what to do next season."

"I have a few ideas!" Victor says. "Why not let me choreograph for you again? Your last short program was okay, but I think it could have used a little more — "

"No," Yuri says sharply. "Pyotr's choreography is fine. I'm not firing him so you can feel like your life has meaning again."

That came out... not how he meant it to. There's an exquisitely awkward silence, then Victor lets out a short laugh and reaches for his beer. He doesn't say anything else.

After half an hour Yuri realises he's never going to be able to concentrate with Victor there, and sitting in silence while Victor gets steadily more intoxicated beside him is no one's idea of a good time. He snaps his laptop shut and retrieves Potya.

"You can sleep on the couch if you want to stay. I'm going to bed."

But he lies awake. Eventually Potya becomes offended by his tossing and turning, and goes to sleep on a pile of clothes in the corner. The room is stuffy — he doesn't usually close the door — and he can't stop thinking about Victor out there in his living room. Victor coming in, asking to share the bed. Victor wrapped around him, draped over him, and this time maybe Yuri would just roll over and rock himself against Victor's thigh, slow and careful until he couldn't be slow and careful any more, until he was coming in his pants with Victor's arms heavy and limp around him.

Fuck. He gets up again with no plan in mind — he didn't even know he was going to get up until he was standing in the middle of the room with a hard-on and a need to do something, anything.

The living room is half-lit, only the light from one of the small fluorescents in the kitchen that Victor must have forgotten to turn off. He's asleep on the couch with Makkachin, lying on his front with his head on Makkachin's back, hugging her. His shoes and socks are lying next to the couch, but he hasn't hasn't bothered to fetch a blanket. His feet are bare and vulnerable. Yuri looks at the blisters and bruises — fading, because Victor hasn't been allowed on the ice since he hurt his knee. Further up, Victor's ass is a perfect curve, and where his shirt has ridden up slightly, Yuri can see the muscles of his back, the slim lines of his waist. He thinks about slipping his fingers up along that slope of warm skin, Victor's shirt crumpling around his wrist. He thinks about climbing on top of Victor right now and grinding down against that firm ass.

Victor sighs in his sleep and turns his head, eyelids fluttering. Yuri starts back in a thunder of guilty adrenaline. Stupid. _Stupid_. What was he thinking?

He goes back to his room and makes himself lie still, with his hands in tight, furious fists at his sides and a fever running through him. Even in his dreams, when he finally manages to fall asleep, he's hard, aching, needing.

* * *

Victor comes again the next night, much later, when Yuri's already given up and gone to bed. This time he arrives drunk, his shirt buttoned wrong, and envelops Yuri in a hug before Yuri can do anything to avoid it.

"Yura," he says, his lips moving warm and wet against Yuri's neck. He smells like sex again, like someone else's cologne, and he's wet from the rain and shivering. "Little Yura, you're the only one who understands. What happens when it goes away? What do we do when we can't find it any more?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Yuri mumbles, fighting to get away. The worst thing is, though, he knows exactly what Victor's talking about. The fire, the ambition, the inspiration — you can't be a top-level skater without those things. Yuri's always felt like he's overflowing, like he'll never run out, but last season he watched Victor try and discard half a dozen different programs, unsatisfied with all of them, and then go back and try them again and settle on one he didn't even like that much because nothing else would come. If that can happen to someone like Victor, it can happen to anyone.

"You have a home," he says, just for something to say, not really meaning it. "Go there."

"It's empty. Don't want to. Let me stay."

"What about Makkachin?"

"With my neighbour. Don't want to wake her up."

"But waking me up is fine? Ugh. Whatever. Wait here."

He disentangles himself from Victor's arms and heads into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and, fuck, he doesn't know, maybe some bread or something. What do you give drunk people? He's intending to let Victor have the couch again, but when he comes out, Victor's not there; only his jacket is folded over the back of a chair. Victor is in Yuri's room, stretched out on the bed.

"No," Yuri says, insides churning. "Get up. You're not sleeping in my fucking bed. _Victor_."

He's talking loudly, almost shouting, but Victor doesn't move, doesn't react. He's dead to the world again, just like — 

_No._

Yuri's shaking. He goes back out into the living room, puts the water down. He'll sleep on the couch. He won't even go in there, won't even look. Hell, he'll go for a run, never mind the rain. He'll exhaust himself past the point of thought or action.

He walks back towards the bedroom and stands in the doorway. Something twists in him, in his heart or his guts or both. Victor is beautiful even in disarray, sprawled out and flushed, with his shirt damp and half-translucent and his collarbone a sharp ridge where his collar is lopsided at the top.

Yuri goes in and starts to take Victor's shoes off. He can do that much, at least. His hands are trembling.

Victor doesn't stir, not for the shoes or the socks, and not when Yuri strokes a light hand up his ankle, just under the cuff of his pants. Victor's skin is cold. He should be under the covers.

"Victor," Yuri says, whispers, knowing there'll be no response. He licks his lips. His hand seems to move of its own accord, up Victor's shin and past his knee. He crawls up onto the bed. His hand goes between Victor's legs. He can feel the slight, soft bulge of Victor's cock there, and suddenly he wants to see it, more than anything. It's not like Victor's shy about nudity, but then again it's not like Yuri can just stare as much as he wants in the changing rooms, either. He's never really looked at another guy in real life, only thought about it, over and over. He just wants to see it properly. There's nothing wrong with that. If Victor were awake, maybe he wouldn't even mind.

He's hard again, but he tries to ignore it. This isn't — it — it just _isn't_. Whatever happened before, that's not what this is.

It takes him three tries to unfasten the button of Victor's pants. The fly is easy, but it sounds so loud, he can't help a nervous glance up at Victor's face, even though he knows Victor's passed out. Slowly, grimacing with concentration, he works Victor's pants down around his hips. No underwear. It's what he half expected, but his ears burn all the same.

He sits back. His breath is coming in shallow little bursts, and his dick juts up ridiculously in his pants, with a visible wet spot at the tip. Victor's is soft, resting on his thigh, but it looks big all the same. Yuri wonders how much bigger it might get. Maybe if he took it in his hand — or in his mouth — Victor would feel it, even in his dreams, and get hard too. Would he moan in his sleep, thrust up in mindless pleasure? Could Yuri make him come without ever waking him up?

 _Fuck. Fuck._ He can't go any longer without touching himself, not even for the sake of pretending that this is just curiosity, that it doesn't mean anything. He curls over his dick as if it hurts, wraps his hand so tight around it it's like he's trying to make it disappear. He never looks away from Victor's exposed skin. He thought he'd come quickly, but his orgasm builds and builds until he thinks he'll spend forever on this excruciating edge, and finally he puts his hand, just the tips of his fingers, on Victor's hip, and then he's tumbling past the point of climax, only it's more like something's being wrung out of him, his body jerking helplessly. 

At some point, when his mind went blank, he closed his eyes. When he opens them again, there's a ribbon of semen trailing across Victor's stomach, down to where his pubic hair would be if he weren't shaved. Yuri stares at it, his breath hissing in and out between his gritted teeth. He can't look away. It's a stamp, a claim, a revelation. His mark on Victor Nikiforov, like the mark Victor's haphazard mentorship has left on him.

He reaches for his phone and takes a photo, because he can. It's too dangerous to keep, he knows that, but he has to save it for a little while.

Then he fetches a paper towel and cleans up with painstaking care, making sure there's nothing left. He pulls Victor's pants back up and fastens them — they're a little twisted, a little low, but Victor will probably just assume they got that way while he was asleep. Then, too tired to do anything else, he changes into clean pajamas and crawls into bed next to Victor, drawing the blanket up over them both.

Victor does move then, nearly giving Yuri a heart attack, but a moment is enough to reassure him Victor hasn't woken up. He's just seeking warmth, seeking comfort; he needs something, someone, to hold on to. He cuddles up against Yuri and Yuri lets himself be drawn in. He should be ashamed — he knows he will be — but right now it just feels good to be held.

* * *

There's no training the next day. After Victor leaves, Yuri tries to make pirozhki, his grandfather's recipe, but he gets distracted and they burn. He sits picking morosely at dried-up cabbage and beef from inside the blackened shells.

He wishes he could ask his grandpa for advice. Even as his mind recoils from the idea, he keeps returning to it. He tries to think of ways to ask without confessing what he's done: "Hey, grandpa," he could say, "what if you're doing something you know is wrong, but you can't stop doing it?"

It's no good. He knows what his grandpa would say — what all of them would say, Yakov and Mila and Beka and even Georgi. They'd say, if you know it's wrong, then you have to stop. And if he said he couldn't? They'd scoff and say, _You? Yuri Plisetsky? What is there you can't do, if you set your mind to it?_

But they're wrong. He can't stop. This morning he woke up with Victor's arms still around him and lay like a stone, cold with horror, disgusted with himself, imagining what Victor might do if he somehow remembered what had happened. Then he got up and went to the bathroom, and jerked off to the photo of his come on Victor's stomach. He couldn't bring himself to delete it.

They'd all say, _If you want to stop, then stop,_ as if it's easy. But what would Victor say? Victor, whose smiles are all lies, whose public image is a sham? Victor who forgets his promises, Victor who clings to the nearest person who'll have him and never means any of it?

Maybe Victor would say the same as the others. Or maybe... or maybe he'd smile that fraying smile, and say, "What does it matter, if no one finds out?"

* * *

That night he gives Victor a spare key. "You can come over whenever you want," he says, not looking at him. "Just stop fucking waking me up, all right?"

He runs for the shower before he has to listen to Victor thanking him.

* * *

The day after, he stops at the pharmacy for toothpaste, foot tape, hair grips, and a bottle of lube. When he gets home he throws them all into his bedside cabinet without looking, without thinking, without thinking at all.

* * *

He wakes up when the bed dips, and half sits up in alarm and confusion, forgetting for a moment.

"Just me," Victor says. He pulls Yuri against him. He's shirtless, bare-chested. Tonight he smells like red wine. "Thanks."

Yuri closes his eyes. Maybe he can just go to sleep this time. If he does, if he can do that, this might all be over. Just a fucked up phase he went through once, when he was young and inexperienced and —

"Victor?" he says, after a few minutes.

Nothing.

He can't sleep. His nerves are electrified, and he's already getting hard in anticipation.

He pulls free a little, enough to reach the drawer. The hair grips rattle as he dislodges them, and he pauses, but only for a moment. By now he's not as worried about Victor waking up.

He sits up in bed and strips off his T-shirt and pants. _Do it, then,_ he catches himself thinking. _Get it over with._ He forces himself to stop, slow down.

The door is half open, the kitchen light on again, and in its bluish glow he makes himself look at Victor, really look. Victor's stripped down to his briefs again, like that first night. He's so perfect he doesn't look real. Yuri's been looking at that face for as long as he can remember, wanting Victor, wanting to be Victor, wanting everything Victor has, until the three are hopelessly jumbled and all he can feel is want. Now he just looks. Pale hair, silvery eyelashes, every muscle picked out in the soft light. Yuri even looks at the support bandage Victor's wearing around his injured knee, taking in that single sign of weakness with jealous greed.

He puts his hand on the back of Victor's neck, possessively. _You're mine, and I'm yours._ He strokes his thumb up and down, from the short hair behind Victor's ears, over his jaw and down the curve of his throat. Victor doesn't stir, but his skin goes prickly with goosebumps, an automatic reaction. Growing bolder, Yuri leans in and kisses the soft place just under Victor's jaw, darting his tongue out to taste the skin. Wine, sweat, salt. He shudders, and rubs his stiffening cock against Victor's side. If he's not careful, he could finish like this.

He lets his hand go wandering down Victor's back, exploring him, shoulder-blades, ribs, spine, muscles and bones. When his fingers encounter Victor's briefs he keeps going, over the top for now, tracing the cleft of Victor's ass through the cotton, all the way down to his balls. It feels just like he thought it would, firm and yielding at the same time, and he rocks against Victor's hip again, imagining how it will feel when he's fucking him.

With his other hand he reaches for the lube, but this isn't going to work one-handed, so he forces himself to pull back. His cock keeps throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but he manages to slow his breathing and stop his hands shaking long enough to slide Victor's underwear down. Then he has to concentrate on getting the lube in his palm, not all over the bed, and he's grateful for the distraction from the need to come right this instant. He rubs the lube between his hands to warm it a little, and wonders if Victor did the same thing earlier tonight, when he was with whoever it was. Or did the other person do it for him? Even now, Yuri can't imagine what Victor would be like as a partner, but that doesn't stop the hot spike of jealousy he feels when he imagines it.

He finally allows himself to wrap one hand around his cock. The lube makes it hard to get a proper grip, but that's a good thing — Yuri still isn't sure of his self-control. For the moment he just holds it, only giving himself a light stroke when the ache gets too much. He works the fingers of his other hand between Victor's ass cheeks, spreading the lube around his hole and watching Victor's face for any sign of wakefulness. His fingers go in with surprisingly little resistance, but it makes sense: Victor's body is completely relaxed. Somehow that's the thought that makes Yuri's cock jerk and his balls tighten, the idea that he can do this and nothing in Victor will resist him, not at all, not even the involuntary tensing of muscles he can't consciously control. He'll accept Yuri in a way he's never accepted anyone else, like he's not even a different person, like they're the same.

It's been long enough. Yuri swings his leg over Victor's hip, straddling him. It's hard to get the angle right, without Victor awake to help him, but when he starts to push in he forgets everything, everything but the need to hold back, to go slow, not to lose control.

He realises, too late, he's been gripping Victor's hips hard enough to leave bruises. Victor is still asleep, though, his mouth slightly open. Yuri strokes the hair out of his forehead with a shaking hand — like Victor's going to notice or care that it's falling in his eyes, but Yuri has to do something to make himself hold still. He's in up to the root now and all he wants is to start thrusting, hard, fast; he'd probably last five seconds at best, but he's afraid, too, of hurting Victor, or doing something Victor might notice in the morning.

Finally he trusts himself enough to start moving his hips in shallow jerks. It's like nothing he's ever felt, so tight around every bit of him, and even though he's usually quiet he can't help making noise now, little strangled sounds that probably sound like he's dying. Maybe he is. When he's close again he thinks maybe he should pull out and come on Victor's back, like a sequel to the photo from before, but just thinking about it is enough, too much. His hips drive forward — he's pushing Victor up the bed, holding him with desperate strength, and then all movement goes out of him and his knees give way, and he lies with his chest on Victor's back and his cheek on Victor's shoulder and white light bursting before his eyes.

He washes standing up in front of the sink before taking the damp cloth back to his room to deal with Victor. Potya watches him from the top of the cat tower, her eyes narrowed.

"I know," Yuri whispers. "Shut up. I know."

When he finally gets back into bed, feeling drained and exhausted, Victor doesn't move. After a few minutes, Yuri picks up Victor's arm and pulls it around him, nestling back against Victor the way Victor likes to snuggle up around him. He doesn't think he could fall asleep, otherwise.

* * *

If Victor notices any bruises or soreness the next morning, he doesn't say anything. Maybe he puts it down to whoever he was with before Yuri. He's already in the shower when Yuri wakes up, and he comes out with a towel around his waist, completely unselfconscious and apparently cheerful, although he shies from the light when Yuri opens the curtains.

"Are you coming again tonight?" Yuri asks, before he can stop himself.

"Probably not. I have an appointment with the physiotherapist, so I think I'll just want to stay in." He tests his knee. "It's feeling better, though. I'll be back to training soon!"

"Great."

It comes out sounding sarcastic, and for a second Victor looks surprised, bewildered, maybe even hurt. Then he grins dutifully. "Ah, sorry, Yurochka, if you want gold this year you're still going to have to beat me for it."

"One day I will."

"We'll see! Oh, that reminds me." He fishes in his coat pocket, and pulls out the key Yuri gave him. "I'll give this back for now. If I'm going back to a regular training schedule, I shouldn't be coming here at all hours."

Yuri looks at the key. He should take it back. Everything from common sense to conscience is telling him he should take it back, put this behind him for good and count himself lucky. Anything else is just inviting trouble.

He reaches, then pulls his hand back. "Keep it," he says. "You never know."


End file.
